Buttoned-up with rivets,
an abandoned sluice pipe
we noted with something more
than fleeting regard,
acknowledging its shift, when?
From something ugly to somehow fitting
here among the remains of an old claim.
The birds sang, the grass leaned,
the sand sighed. The whole planet
shifted, as it does every morning, tilting
its face to the moon, or away,
but imperceptibly. We moved on
forgetting how it all breathes, until now
reflected in rust, the life
Kay McKenzie Cooke